


Love in Codes

by aria_dc_al_fine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria_dc_al_fine/pseuds/aria_dc_al_fine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Orphans make the best recruits.’ This may be true for field agents, but perhaps not for quartermasters. A series of drabbles depicting Q’s relationship with his brothers and men who were important to them Holmeses.</p><p>(Or: Where Q and Mycroft try matchmaking each other and Sherlock observes in derision until he realises that James Bond and John have a history. Greg is amused. Bromance and BAMF-ness ensue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1-7

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I blame the writer of ‘Assemble’ (link: http://ofmadhattersandhookedcrocodiles.tumblr.com/post/35087595049/assemble-a-crazy-crossover). Now it’s my headcanon that Q is Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s little brother. There have been many takes on Q’s name, but only Quentin and Percy (from Perseus, “hunter who penetrate the hedge”, rather apt for a hacker) stuck with me. Quentin means ‘fifth’ (I’m not making up two OCs brothers). So Percy it is!
> 
> Un’beta-ed and not Brit-picked, I’m sorry.

1.

Perseus ‘Percy’ Holmes is the youngest of three brothers but he was not the most spoiled.

(Most of the time he feels like he’s the middle child.)

It has become apparent since Percy was merely one year old that Sherlock was always, always going to attract more attention than Percy. At five years old, the boy was a terror in his home, collecting absolutely anything that caught his interests, from dead animal carcasses found in the expansive gardens of the Holmes’ ancestral grounds to ‘treasures’ the ‘pirate’ had ‘looted’ when the servants were not watching. Percy had come to accept that the nanny was always going to attend to Sherlock’s screams over his cries.

(Percy was never a fussy baby, anyways. He found simple comfort in Mycroft’s arms, whenever the twelve-year-old awkward almost teenager, pale and chubby with too much freckles over his cheeks, hid from pitying, judging looks from relatives at the garden parties. Percy’s love for his eldest brother began when he snuggled against Mycroft’s warmth and slept his care away as his brother read him fairytales in soothing rounded vowels and precise consonants.)

 

2.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

Gregory Lestrade looked up from the heavenly cup of coffee he was nursing. He observed the bespectacled thin stranger across the table, dressed like an old man in neat checkered navy trousers and dark brown cardigan. The stranger's mop of messy dark hair was the only part of his appearance that belayed his youth. The Detective Inspector returned his polite smile. “It’s not occupied.”

“Thanks,” the stranger replied. He sat down with his cuppa and plate of antipasto and gestured at the rest of the café. “There isn’t any other place…” he had a sheepish expression on his face.

“It’s fine,” Greg returned quickly. He really didn’t mind the company. In fact, he’d always preferred not having meals alone. His job and lifestyle hadn’t made it possible most of the time, so he ordered takeaways instead [1]. “The lunch hours are always horrible,” he continued in a lighthearted tone, clearly initiating conversations.

The stranger’s thin lips widened. “Do you often eat here?”

“Bought the sandwiches and baguettes to eat in my office nearby,” Greg cocked his head towards the refrigerated display, “They do a mean smoked ham here.”

“Really,” the stranger added a dash of milk to his tea – earl grey, from the scent of it. He glared disdainfully at the purple plastic stirrer, his eyes rolling so fast Greg wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t used to seeing that expression. “I shall try them sometimes.”

On whose face do I often see that? Greg blinked and frowned inwardly. “Did you recently get a job in the area?” the older man with the salt and pepper hair leaned forward, “or are you not from around here?”

“It’s the latter,” the stranger answered ruefully, “I work a couple of Tube stations away. I’m rather sick of having the same lunch offering for over two years, so I’m venturing out a bit today.”

They exchanged names (Jeremy. Jeremy McKenzie, tech support at PricewaterhouseCoopers Embankment Place [2]. Greg should have guessed, from his geeky look and the conventional way he dressed) and had pleasant conversations about anything under the sky, from football to their jobs (‘You’re a detective from NSY,’ Jeremy repeated in awe, but Greg waved him off. ‘Most of the time it’s as boring as your job in PwC. The paper works, they’re so dreadful!’). The easy chatter would have gone on a lot longer if Greg wasn’t interrupted by a phone call from Donovan.

“Homicide at West Kensington, Beaumont Avenue” her voice was clipped. “Male in his forties, suspected connection with the murder on last Tuesday,” distress started creeping in her tone. “This is more complicated than we thought, isn’t it?” she sounded resigned.

Greg shot his sergeant a sympathetic smile from miles away. “I’ll be there ASAP.”

“Emergency calls?” Jeremy asked as he speared a cherry tomato with his fork.

Greg nodded, his lips curling in apology. “It’s been great talking to you.”

Jeremy cocked his head, letting a lock of dark hair fall to almond-shaped eyes. “I’ll see you around?” he invited.

Greg refrained from checking the other man out. For one, Jeremy was too young (not that it wasn’t appealing; such things tend to be fun in the short run but leads nowhere, something Greg didn’t enjoy anymore, at this age), and well, Greg was still recovering from his divorce. Rebound sex would be unfair to Jeremy. “Perhaps,” he ended up saying, before he left.

Sherlock and John were already at the crime scene the moment Greg reached West Kensington, the good doctor hovering about and smiling apologetically at some of the police officers while Sherlock flitted about with that tiny magnifying glass of his, firing deductions after deductions and generally making a nuisance of himself.

“John,” Greg greeted the stout man who’d come to be his close friend. “Sherlock. Anything so far?”

“Five ideas,” the genius quipped absentmindedly, his attention still on the gruesomely murdered corpse. “It’ll be solved in three days, at most-” as Greg came closer to his personal space, the consulting detective froze and turned his attention on him instead, grey-blue eyes searching, scrutinizing.

Greg fought the urge to squirm. “What?”

“Did you meet…Q?” Sherlock frowned.

“Q?” Greg echoed. “Is that supposed to be a name?”

“A Geoffrey, then?” Sherlock’s eye twitched.

“No,” Greg was baffled. He shot John a look over Sherlock’s shoulder. The doctor stared back blankly before he looked at his flatmate concernedly.

“Never mind,” Sherlock remarked, his face still filled with…is that puzzlement? ‘What is he calling himself these days,’ Greg heard him murmur as he returned his attention back to the case. Soon enough, the trio forgot about the strange string of questions as they were chasing the suspect halfway across the city.

Greg only found out what that was about in months.

 

3.

Q may have inherited most of his physical attributes from Mummy Holmes, like Sherlock (the irresistible messy dark curls, the exquisite facial bone structures, the lean long limbs and the inability to gain weight) but his personality (along with his thin wide lips and the slight beak of his nose) is closer to Mycroft’s.

He prefers to be the all-knowing man behind the screens, eyes watching CCTV feeds and GPS signals (007’s, Sherlock’s, John’s, Lestrade’s) moving across maps of London he’d memorized by heart, fingers dancing over the keyboard a mile a minute. He prefers to be the voice in 007’s ear, offering him guidance (sometimes not followed) and information that more often than not saved the agent’s life in near-death situations. He prefers to be the overbearing (younger) brother who typed strings of codes that directed taxis toward 221B whenever Sherlock needed them and kept traffic lights green a couple of seconds longer for him. He has neither the energy not the interests to run after murderous psychopaths.

Like Mycroft, Q is a well-versed guardian angel-cum-dictator.

(Snark is something the three of them shared, though.)

 

4.

“007.”

James blinked at the long-haired brunette sitting across Moneypenny’s desk, her eyes glued to the Blackberry in her hands. “Anthea,” he returned the greeting. He was sure it wasn’t her real name, but that was the name she’d given him long ago, when he was still foolish enough to believe that he could make her choose him over her electronic device, for at least 30 minutes.

The brunette returned to ignoring him. The agent threw a smile at Moneypenny. “Another time, then?”

“No, actually,” Moneypenny smiled at him, no less sharp than the woman opposite to her, but subtler. Both “Anthea” and Moneypenny had the efficiency and dedication required for personal assistants of great men, and the promise of one day ever replacing those great men themselves.

“I see,” James barely managed to prevent himself from blinking again. He wondered what he could have possibly done to warrant a visit from Mycroft Holmes. Meeting the ‘Director’ was akin to meeting the Queen after all.

“As soon as you’re ready,” Moneypenny teased. James tossed her a smirk before he turned the knob to M’s office.

M looked up from the papers he was reading when the agent entered. “007,” it was the other man in the room who greeted him however.

James eyed the tall auburn-haired man who rose to his feet and smiled at him genially with caution. The man offered the agent a hand, his other hand still on that damn black umbrella (James was convinced it was a weapon of some kind). It wasn’t his first time meeting the ‘Director’. A couple of years ago they’d been in the same ballroom once, somewhere deep in the mountainous terrains of Switzerland. Holmes was there for a negotiation, while James was there for back-up, in case anything went pear-shaped. He’d been thoroughly redundant.

“Holmes,” he shook the proffered hand.

“None of that,” Holmes responded to the questions in his mind and his smile widened. If that was meant to ease James, he was sorely mistaken, because those grey-blue eyes were the most impenetrable eyes James had ever come across. Even more impenetrable than Silva’s. “I’m here to ask you a favour today.”

“How may I help you?” James could not help the incredulity that had escaped through his voice. Mycroft Holmes and his people could settle cases such as the Bruce-Partington Plans and that near-miss scandal involving Irene Adler after all. It was hard to imagine him requiring some sort of assistance from MI6. Usually, MI6 needed a favour from him, not the other way round.

M unearthed a manila folder from the papers on his desk and passed it to James. “We need your answer now.”

James flipped through the brief, his eyes scanning through the texts. He froze when he encountered ‘suspected association with Quantum and Mr White.’

He knew both of them were watching him. It was a test. Why M, and Holmes, would participate in this, James did not understand. Did M not believe that he was over Vesper Lynd? And why would Holmes have any interests in this?

“I choose to accept,” he answered regardless, his voice even.

“Very well,” M gave him a curt nod, while Holmes beamed at him. Holmes was often known for his love for theatrics, though always strictly outside serious business. “I’m ready for departure. Shall we proceed to the Q branch now?” The Director sounded excited. James thought it strange but didn’t delve into it.

The boy’s response, as they arrived there, was not the adorable annoyance and snark he’d often reacted to James with, but widened eyes and a gaping mouth. “What are you doing here?” his attention wasn’t even on James, but on Holmes. James felt strangely slighted that Q was not looking at him when he was supposed to prep him for a mission.

“Checking up on you,” Holmes replied silkily, his voice filled with so much fondness. Only then, James was aware that he should have felt alarmed that Holmes and Q knew each other, perhaps intimately, instead of the itch of irritation for being ignored. “I was only doing what you’ve done before.”

James found that he couldn’t get his eyes off the blush that spread high on Q’s pale cheeks.

“Supplies, please?” Holmes broke through the trance, and James fought the impulse to duck his head. What on earth was wrong with him?

Q held a black casing towards the agent, those eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses finally on him. He showed him how to use the equipments (still no exploding pen) before he shoved the box to him. “Please return them in tact this time,” the boy glared.

James fell back into the routine comfortably as he smirked. “We’ll see.”

“That walther seems awfully convenient,” Holmes, however, had to ruin the moment. “I remember that you’re good with your hands…Q” he paused as though he was going to refer to the quartermaster with another name, and patted his damned brolly as he smiled at Q. James took a sharp breath inwardly [3]. “Is there any chance I can have that as well?”

The embarrassment on Q’s face turned sharply to concern, the lines around his eyes pulled taut. “You’re…going for this operation?” it was obvious that Q cared so much for Holmes.

Holmes responded with a soft smile, his hand reaching out to caress the boy’s hair before slipping down to his jaw. Q closed his eyes as he let Holmes drop a kiss on his cheek, despite the watching eyes of his interns and the rest of the staff in Q-branch. “I’ll stay safe. I’ll keep my promise this time,” Holmes whispered.

Q merely reacted with a sad smile before he proceeded to record Holmes’ palm print.

(If James were less distracted he would have realized that Mycroft Holmes wasn’t the sort of man who would forget about details such as calling the boy by a letter instead of his real name. That there was something fishy in the encounter. That the curve of Q’s nose and the curl of Q’s lips held close resemblance to Holmes’.

But he was too thoroughly distracted.)

 

5.

The day Percy decided to trade his name for a letter, Mycroft beamed at him with so much pride in his eyes, and Sherlock looked at him with exaggerated disgust.

But later, much later, when Q received a mug with the Scrabble font of ‘Q10’ emblazoned on the porcelain, he knew the gift wasn’t from Mycroft.

 

6.

“Gregory!”

Greg turned around and found someone vaguely familiar waving at him. The detective inspector moved closer and remembered the brown cardigan and black-rimmed glasses from a couple of weeks ago. “Jeremy!” he grinned and sat down across the younger man. “Didn’t expect to meet you here!” he placed his coffee and sandwich on the table.

“Me neither,” Jeremy was lying through his teeth, but both of them acknowledged it was a harmless lie. “How’s the job?”

“Still completely lacking in work-life balance,” Greg replied chirpily. “Sadly criminals don’t rest during the holidays. Quite the opposite, really,” he winked. It was a warning, actually. ‘If you’re still interested, you have to be prepared for this,’ was the intended message. “How about you?”

“Glad to be finally out of audit peak season,” Jeremy either didn’t notice, or he was ignoring the message. “I’m not directly involved in audit, God bless me, but auditors get so cranky and pushy about me fixing their access to ACL during the peak season [4].”

They fell back into the easy banter, with Greg looking out for hints of flirting. After about ten minutes, a small silence descended upon then, before Jeremy put down his cup of tea (still earl grey) and cleared his throat. “May I ask you a question?”

‘Here it is,’ Greg squared himself. “Sure.”

Jeremy bit his lower lip (God, that was distracting, Greg thought, and it’s a familiar sight come to think of it…), clearly hesitating, before he went with it. “My boyfriend’s birthday is coming soon but I have no idea what to get him. We’ve only recently started dating. He’s in defense, like you, with unshakeable faith to his country and often in the line of danger. I wonder if you have any suggestions…?”

Greg blinked twice, a little disappointed but mostly relieved. He wasn’t sure he wanted to date someone likely two decades younger after all. “Let me see…what does he do in his free time?”

They talked about Jeremy’s boyfriend for a while, which ended with Greg recommending the younger man to cook for the guy and cuddle in front of the telly because the boyfriend sounded like the type who needed and would appreciate simple affection (orphan, likely an alcoholic from the descriptions. Greg shook his head).

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Jeremy smiled gratefully, “how about you? Any special someone?” as he talked his eyes flitted to Greg’s ring finger, checking that the skin was bare.

Greg chuckled. “I don’t have the time,” he shook his head, “and no one would want to be with an old guy like me,” he let a little self-deprecation through.

“Nonsense, Greg, you’re a silver fox,” Jeremy said with conviction and no flirtation whatsoever. The boyfriend must be real and not a reference to him, Greg mused. “You must have someone you’re interested in. Someone in NSY?” his expression turned curious.

“I don’t date with anyone I work with,” Greg stated, and ignored the quick flicker in Jeremy’s eyes which indicated that the younger guy might be dating a co-worker (which conflicted with his stories, but Greg didn’t want to look too deeply into them).

“Absolutely no one at all?” Jeremy repeated, almost in disappointment.

Greg nodded.

“Who’s your type, then?” Jeremy was insistent. “Men? Women? Brunette? Ginger? Tall?”

Greg laughed. “Why do you care so much?”

Jeremy blushed and ducked his head in embarrassment. “I just think it’s good for you to have someone who could be there with you and care for you. Since you care for others so much.”

Greg stared at his lunch companion sharply. “How do you know?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You’re a policeman. Of course you care for others so much.” This was the first time the nerdy nice guy sounded sarcastic. For a moment, he reminded Greg of Sherlock.

May be that’s why Greg ended up opening up to him (not that Greg opened up to Sherlock, but he trusted the consulting detective with his life). “Men and women both. I…tend to be weak in the knees for people who look proper (ex-wife was – still is – a teacher after all, Greg thought absently). I’d like someone reliable, someone who takes things seriously, someone who…also cares for others. And someone who won’t mind the hectic hours of my job, of course,” Greg ended the rather mellow, wistful statement in a cheerful tone before he could depress himself, before Jeremy took pity on him.

There wasn’t an ounce of pity on the bespectacled tech staff’s face, though. Jeremy just looked at him straight on the eyes, his expression serious. “Are you sure there is no one like that around you, detective inspector?” he spoke softly.

Greg was lost for words.

 

7.

Both Mycroft and Percy are a little in love with Sherlock.

Oh, who is he kidding.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have a friend like that, who prefers to eat at her desk or in her dorm room if she’s not having lunch/dinner with a friend. Eating out is cheaper for an individual than cooking in Singapore.
> 
> 2\. Jeremy McKenzie, tech support from PwC is borrowed from “breathe it like you mean it” by skylights. Jeremy is a fictitious story to be released in Q’s obituary or the life Q has to admit he’s living if he’s captured by enemies. In her fic Jeremy works in PwC at South London (presumably Gatwick), but NSY HQ at Broadway London is too far from Gatwick, so I made it PwC Embankment Place instead.
> 
> 3\. It is a head-canon of mine that if the umbrella is some sort of a weapon, it’s a present from Q to Mycroft.
> 
> 4\. You guess that right…I’m going to be an auditor by profession in nine months.


	2. 8-12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rather like this story’s take of Q’s ascent in MI6: http://archiveofourown.org/works/565584, ‘This is Her Body’ by Chaerring. Particularly that Quinn was made Quartermaster only after the explosion in the old MI6 building killed her predecessor.
> 
> Q’s demeanor in the movie did indicate he was new and out of depth, boastful (‘I invented it’) as he wanted to seem like he was good for the job, fuming when he was outwitted by Silva, and nervous about not doing things by the book.
> 
> Credit: Drabble no. 11 is mostly based on ‘This is Her Body’ by Chaerring, coz it's such a brilliant story. Check it out.

8.

Greg couldn’t stop thinking about what Jeremy had said.

He knew that the younger man couldn’t have meant anything (if he did, then Greg would be alarmed because Jeremy must have stalked him to know who Greg’s friends and acquaintances were and that’s against the law. And seriously creepy.) But the question had prompted a change in the way Greg saw others. Had Greg been too hasty and denied himself the possibility of something beautiful?

“A penny for them?”

Greg returned to reality with a jolt, and found Mycroft observing him from across the table, an eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Greg cursed inwardly. What on earth made him think it’s okay to drift away in the midst of his weekly ‘report’ to Sherlock’s brother? “I’m sorry,” he spoke quickly.

“A complicated homicide case?” Mycroft dismissed the apology with a wave of his long fingers. “Conflicts in the office? It’s completely fine to be distracted, Detective Inspector. I am not offended. Besides, you have known that offending me would not cause you any terrible repercussions since long ago.” His smile widened.

Greg couldn’t help but blush in embarrassment. It’s true that he might have told Mycroft to stuff his chequebook up his arse when the government official first requested Gregory to spy on Sherlock in exchange for money. But that was because Greg had been rudely kidnapped off the street in the morning on his way to work, and he didn’t know who Mycroft was, then. After ascertaining that the tall posh redhead was a close relative of the brilliant junkie Greg couldn’t help but feel protective toward and had nothing but good intentions for said junkie, Greg willingly supported the Holmes brothers during Sherlock’s long, long road of recovery.

Fast forward a few years and here Greg and Mycroft were.

“Is it about the murder in the hospital? I’ve read about it in the newspapers…” Mycroft cut through Greg’s reminiscence with a conversation starter, quietly urging him to talk.

“We’ve found new pieces of evidence which have narrowed down the possible list of suspects by a lot,” Greg trailed off as he gazed at Mycroft, studying him in the dim lighting of the Diogenes after working hours. Subdued by the earthy tones of the wooden furniture that matched the colour of the bespoke three-piece suits he’d never been seen without. Always so prim and proper Greg felt the sudden  _want_  to test the younger man, make him fall apart under his fingers.

Greg blinked.  _What on earth-?_

“I’m boring you, am I?” There was a wry grin on Mycroft’s face.

 “No, no! It’s me…I’m distracted. Sorry, I must be a terrible company right now…” Greg sighed. 

In contrast, Greg recalled that Mycroft had never shown anything but pleasantness, even when he was sporting a bruise on his temple from objects Sherlock had hurled at him. There were flashes of anxiety, sometimes, mostly after Sherlock was reckless and got hurt, but Mycroft was never less than a perfect host.

“All of us have troubles now and then. I understand,” Mycroft finished the last of his wine and placed the glass on the table top with finality in his movements. “Thank you for your updates on Sherlock, Detective Inspector.”

Bullshit. This…regular meet ups they had, hadn’t always been about Sherlock. Not since Greg asked Mycroft about which football teams he supported long ago. Greg considered Mycroft a friend, someone he enjoyed talking to (on politics, football, operas and London traffic to name a few), a great listener and an even better conversationalist.

 _And what have I ever given him in return?_ Greg thought morosely. “I’ll make it up to you next week.” Greg surprised himself. It’s the boldest thing he’d said to Mycroft (other than the ‘piss off’ in their first ever meeting).

Mycroft looked quite surprised as well, before his expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid I will be away from London for a couple of weeks starting tomorrow, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh…” Greg felt strangely disappointed. It’s not the first time Mycroft had to bail from the meet ups. Sometimes Greg didn’t hear from the elder Holmes for months on end. Why was Greg so out of sorts…? “See you when I see you, then. But if you tell me a day in advance I can prepare something,” Greg grinned. “Home-cooked meals and movies?” The recommendation he’d offered Jeremy. Bollocks.

“Thank you. The thought matters a lot,” the smile on Mycroft’s face was different, somehow. Softer around the edges, more genuine.  Greg had only ever seen the same smile once, after Sherlock finally, finally stopped looking like he was going to claw Mycroft’s eyes out when they were in the same room.

Greg couldn’t breathe, somehow. “You’re welcome,” he barely managed to say, before Anthea entered the room to escort him home.

 

9.

Percy had been enamoured by the Computer in Father’s study since he was eight years old.

When his peers liked IRC [1] because the platform enabled them to converse with strangers across the world, Percy navigated through the channels and stripped the protocols down layer by layer. When it was clear that Mycroft was going to make a life out of politics, and Sherlock biological sciences and chemistry, Percy decided to excel in information technology because: 1) it’s the future, 2) the three of them could rule the world.

But of course, Sherlock had to throw a spanner in the works, refused to be ambitious and let Tony Stark [2] steal the limelight.

But that’s okay. Mycroft could convince leaders to surrender their countries and Q could disable and fire half the missiles in the world. Between the two of them, humanity is more or less theirs.

 

10.

 _Mycroft Holmes is actually a good operative_ , James thought.

“Evacuation requested,” the tall auburn-haired man spoke to the tiny mike on his collar, half his face busted, one hand hanging limply to his side, bamboo splinters still under his nails and three fingers broken. James himself probably had a few ribs broken, no surprise there. The pleasant surprise had been Holmes’ high tolerance level. Under what James was sure was intense, stinging pain, the Director was still able to think clearly and manipulate the goons in charge of keeping them captive to let them free. James was impressed (even though he was still  ~~jealous~~  suspicious of Holmes’ relationship with Q).

“Sir,” Anthea’s voice filled James’ earpiece. The noise in the background was a huge racket. She must be in a helicopter coming their way. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

Holmes glanced at his walther, mentally counting his bullets in half a second. “Make it ten.”

“Yes Sir.”

James was amazed. “I wish you’re that helpful,” he told his mike.

“Shut up,” Q’s voice filled his ear, and judging from Holmes’ quiet chuckle, he could hear Q’s snippy reply too. James’ eye twitched. “The nearest helicopter landing is at the roof of the west wing. I’ve sent the coordinates to Amaranthine.”

“Who?” James ducked a bullet as both of them crept westward.

“Anthea’s name for the week,” Holmes quipped as he disarmed someone almost one half his body mass with swift kicks to the sternum and the windpipe. He fought in a very precise, efficient manner, causing maximum damage with minimum effort, as though he’d already known how the opponent would react in his mind.

Q fought very similarly, James realized. The same look of concentration in his almond-shaped eyes, the same way he used his lithe body to inflict maximum force on the opponent’s weakest body parts, like the joints. The time Q disarmed a brute twice his size when the two of them were attacked in broad daylight, James had been unexpectedly aroused by the realization of how…deadly Q could be even without his laptop, the way he fought like it was a choreographed dance.

_Was Holmes the one who taught Q hand-to-hand combat?_

“Emergency stairs to your right,” Q’s voice guided, and they followed. There was an easy camaraderie between Holmes and James, like the politician knew how James would move.

James frowned inwardly. Have you been observing my records? He wanted to ask, but before he could, there was an explosion.

Holmes tackled him to the ground and covered him before James could think to do so for the politician, and in the fall James knocked his head hard against the floor. His vision swam and went black for a moment. When he came to, the place was already swarmed by back-up agents, armed with guns and fire extinguishers.

“007, Mycroft, please report,” Q’s voice sounded tinny, a frantic edge close to the professional veneer.  “007. Mycroft. Mycroft, please report,” it grew in volume.

“Q…” James moaned. He felt dizzy.

“007!” Q did away with any illusion of professionalism left. “Update us!”

“Back-up has arrived. We’re evacuating soon,” James reassured the quartermaster.

“Mycroft?” oh, joy, James was ignored again. “007, how’s Mycroft?”

Only then, James noticed that the man above him had lost consciousness, and was bleeding all over the place.

The agent cursed inwardly. “…Not good.”

 

11.

M hadn’t been impressed with Perseus Holmes when he hacked MI6’s database and left behind a note: ‘I’m concerned that our nation’s security has holes. You need me.’

“I could get him expelled from university and force him to undergo our training programme. He needs to know his place,” she glared at Mycroft with her piercing blue eyes. “I don’t care that he’s your brother, Mr Holmes.”

“By all means, Madam, please let him prove himself,” the auburn-haired politician crossed his legs. “He told me that he would like to earn his place by his own merit, so I shan’t prevent you. Although…” Mycroft took out his smartphone, “he really should graduate from university first.” He slid the device to her.

On the screen, the case CIA had been refusing to send for two weeks was shown.

M narrowed her eyes. “Very well.”

Almost a year later, M had the youngest Holmes sat down in her office. “The moment you don’t follow protocols and you don’t work within the rules, you’ll be sent home,” she began and ended with one sentence. One sentence was enough.

Percy was on the edge of his seat. “Understood.”

Percy spent weeks filing paperwork and serving  ~~idiots~~  colleagues coffee as an intern, the bottom of Q-branch’s food chain. Simultaneously, he survived through the trainings with a stiff upper lip (let it not be said that Percy was not physically fit. Sherlock taught him how to fight when the older Holmes was into boxing in university). It rankled that there were so  _many_  rules about what he could not use his computer for. He’d never had such rules before, and the temptations were maddening.

But Percy held his ground and didn’t hack anything unrestricted (including the Tube, taxi booking and traffic lights system). He didn’t want to rise through the ranks because of Mycroft, though he knew his big brother would grant it if Percy requested. Mycroft got where he was through his own power [3].

( _It was also around this time he heard that Sherlock had gone missing in Central Europe, and found months later at Soho, high as a kite and drugged to his skull out of his own volition. Percy was hurt that Mycroft hid everything from him until Sherlock was safely locked in a discreet and reputed rehab facility._

_“Why did you do that!?” he’d cried, his voice hoarse, “He’s my brother too!”_

_“Sshhh,” Mycroft held him tightly and petted his hair as he dry-heaved against his brother’s pudgy chest. Percy wasn’t blind. Mycroft’s stressed to the nines, judging from how much his waistline had expanded. His face was pale and bruised and Percy wanted to help-_

_“Pursue your dreams in peace, Perseus,” Mycroft stared at him in the eyes and halted his thoughts. “Please do this for me. Your happiness means everything to me.”_

_“You’re not playing fair,” Percy bit his lip. His spotty cheeks were blotched with…anger? Sadness? He didn’t know for sure._

_“It’s enough that he hates me, Percy. I don’t want to drag you into this as well.”  Mycroft looked resigned. “This is for the best,” he whispered, ever the utilitarian._

_Logically, Percy couldn’t help but agree._

_He still didn’t like it.)_

Percy drowned himself in work, obsessed with progressing. M  ~~distracted~~  rewarded him by letting him out to the field (maybe she realized he’s of more use that way). Within months Percy was known as the most efficient technical agent, always  _early_  in submitting his reports, and fast in getting into any system, even within the rules M had set (Percy had taken to reciting them like bible verses. Not that he’s terribly religious). Operatives started saying, ‘Actually, I’d like to have Technical Agent Holmes with me, if that’s possible of course,’ to Tanner. And this was a big deal. A huge deal. [4]

Before long, Percy started working with double-Os. For his third mission with 004, he took his first flight to Jakarta (he’d never gone further than Portugal before, and Mummy preferred to take trains), and it would be his last if he had any say on it. The plane was hijacked and crashed somewhere in the Middle East. There were terrorists, pain, darkness and bloodcurdling screams. By the end of two days (Percy counted by the seconds. MI6’s average retrieval rate was three to five days; help was rather quick in this one), 004 was beyond repair (not dead; early retirement, bless him) and Percy had at least ten broken bones in his ribs and legs (they left his face and hands in tact so that he could still speak, write and type codes. Not that he’d ever cave). 

The surgeons told him to stay out of the field for at least half a year, and frankly Percy didn’t want to get back to the field at all. M mercifully assigned him as the assistant of the Quartermaster, a genial fifty-something man with a balding head, intelligent dark eyes and boundless enthusiasm [5]. He could read codes as quickly as Percy (though it was from hard work and experience and not, you know, talent), and he was sheer brilliance in designing weapons.

(He was the father Percy wished he – he and Sherlock and Mycroft – had.)

Percy spent the next few years learning how to dissemble and assemble guns in seconds and inventing super-smartphones, cards that could open any lock imaginable and bombs as small as a capsule. His ideas were heard and implemented. Sherlock managed to stay clean for a year, and was getting his own place at Baker St.

Percy daresay he was…happy.

Until news of 007’s death entered his mailbox.

MI6 was never the same after that.

 

12.

Percy hated Sherlock, once.

He would never worry Mycroft and Mummy like that [6]. He wouldn’t.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. IRC: Internal Relay Chat, invented in 1988. You need to type commands to chat. Yep, I’m a 80s baby haha.
> 
> 2\. A little collision with the Avengers universe :p. I doubt they will make more appearances, though. I prefer to focus on the six characters only.
> 
> 3\. My headcanon Father Holmes is a Professor, who amassed wealth through staying ahead of the stocks market or consulting businesses (the clean, honest version of Game of Shadows’ Prof Moriarty). In ACD it was implied that Mycroft invented his own role, so Father Holmes couldn’t have been his predecessor.
> 
> 4\. Most of the ideas behind drabble no. 11 were from http://archiveofourown.org/works/565584 
> 
> 5\. He’s the 2nd Q/R, played by John Cleese
> 
> 6\. There is a meta on why the blogger feels that Mycroft is Sherlock’s parental figure (http://thecutteralicia.tumblr.com/post/27254275196/the-holmes-brothers-or-why-mycroft-is-actually). And I pretty much agree. So I imagined Holmes parents were pretty much absent in their children’s lives. May be Father Holmes died young, while Mummy Holmes was an ambitious career woman who was away most of the time. Or a housewife with mental illness.
> 
> Some stories speculated that Father Holmes had an affair and Mummy divorced him. There is also a story where Q is Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s half-brother from that affair (Family Secret by Valeria2067) and though this is more canon-compliant (Sherlock and Mycroft never mentioned about Q because it was a sore point), I want Q to love his brothers and Q does have Sherlock’s appearance and Mycroft’s personality. Anyways, this is my story, I get to decide what’s on it mwahahaha (I do hate straying too much from canon tho).


	3. 13-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) ‘Collision’ by ice_evanesco has the MOST plausible back story EVER for ‘How Greg met Sherlock and got Mycroft along with it’. The characterization is SUPERB. The dialogues even more so! The style and the word choice, every time a character speaks, I can exactly imagine him speaking like he’s in the canon BBC series. So precise.
> 
> Ok, gushing aside, I have a confession to make: I…might have depicted Mycroft as a saint in this story. I love stories where Mycroft places family as priority. In my head I feel that the primary reason he’s in his current job is he wants the privileges that come with it to keep family safe. Of course, he loves the challenges of the job and the power. A bit like in part 8 of Eccentricities by Osmosis series (warning: it’s Johncroft) by exbex.
> 
> So I’ve struggled with understanding why Sherlock and Mycroft ever had a fall out. What happened? Was there a turning point? Or was it gradual?
> 
> Then I read ‘Collision’, had self-reflection and now at last, I understand Sherlock.
> 
> So in response, I wrote Drabble no. 16. It’s based on ‘Collision’ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) by ice_evanesco. Go read it! It doesn’t have enough kudos and hits it deserves for its sheer brilliance.

13.

“You’re stupid.”

Mycroft looked up and saw Q, glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes, his nose scrunched. The room was dark and the rest of the patients in the corridor should be asleep by then.

“Glad to see you, too, Q,” Mycroft smiled wanly.

“I hope you’ve gotten what you set out to get,” Q couldn’t help the vehemence in his voice as he spoke bitingly, “because if you haven’t, that mission has been a colossal waste of time. Not to mention suicidal.” The younger Holmes didn’t even react when Mycroft winced minutely. “God, Mycroft, what were you thinking!? Were you even thinking?” Q ran his hand through his hair.

“I had to see that Minister face-to-face. Establish trust with him. Ensure that he won’t be replaced in the next three months so I’ll have to do this all over again. Now, that’s a waste of time,” Mycroft replied. “That he’s associated with Quantum and suspected of protecting Mr White was a bonus.”

Q glared. “And Amaranthine couldn’t have done it on your behalf? You hate legwork, Mycroft.” He’d seen through Mycroft’s excuse, of course he had.

“Anastasia,” Mycroft corrected. A had moved on to a new name quickly this time. “You know that my direct involvement in the first meeting goes a long way in establishing relations.” He was stalling. Mycroft sighed. “He’s important to you.”

Finally, they were getting to the crux of the matter. “You’re so much more important than him,” Q clasped his brother’s hand in his fingers, his knuckles white.

‘ _I’m thankful,’_  Mycroft thought as he rubbed the other man’s skin soothingly with his thumb, ‘ _but I’m not enough for you.’_

 

14.

Years ago, when Percy was six, Mummy was overwhelming and Mycroft was miles away, Sherlock grabbed his brother’s hand and practically dragged him out of the house. Percy watched as patches of sunlight danced on Sherlock’s mop of messy dark locks through the thick canopy of the woods outside the estate, his wrist secure in the curl of his older brother’s fingers.

“Where are we going?” he asked after ten minutes.

“My lab,” the elder replied simply. As though he was just saying, ‘the kitchen,’ and not ‘the secret place I haven’t shared with anyone else.’

Sherlock brought him through a magical place, an abandoned greenhouse standing at the corner of a small clearing, surrounded by old oak trees. In the inside, glass containers were scattered all over any level surfaces available, makeshift ‘beakers’ Percy had seen in scientific encyclopedias, filled with solvents of different colours and viscosity. There were even a Bunsen burner and test tubes neatly perched at a wooden rack at the corner, trinkets Sherlock might have ‘borrowed’ from the cabinet in Father’s study.

For hours, Percy was lost in Sherlock’s voice as he explained the properties of elements and his experiments with excitement the younger boy had never heard from him before.

(Between the blue of copper sulphate crystals against sunlight, and the white of the flame dancing over lead, Percy understood the world as seen from Sherlock’s eyes, and began to love Sherlock too.)

 

15.

“You see the boot print over here? It’s-”

“It’s the gardener’s. It doesn’t mean anything,” Anderson cut in.

Sherlock glared at the forensic. If looks could kill, the German would have been six feet under. “Thank you for the stupid, rude interruption. As I was saying-”

A phone rang.

“As I was saying, from the size of the print and the intensity of the mud,” Sherlock spoke rapidly, a vein pulsing on his temple. “It’s clear that the person who was wearing the boots when he stepped here was left-handed and heavier than the gardener. Hence-”

Greg tapped on the genius’ shoulder cautiously after everyone in the vicinity had checked their phones. John was away because Harry had  _something_  and Sherlock was always more vicious without his flatmate around [1]. “Sherlock, it’s yours.”

“Why is nobody listening?” The consulting detective let out a long-suffering sigh as he retrieved his blackberry. “Speaking,” he spoke viciously to the device.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” Greg could hear the voice from the other end from since he was standing quite close to the genius.

“Yes,” Sherlock let out an annoyed huff.

 “Next of kin of Mr Mycroft Holmes?”

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock’s expression had turned sombre. “What’s happened to Mycroft?”

Greg was alarmed to find that there was a hint of  _anxiety_  in Sherlock’s voice.

“Mr Mycroft Holmes was injured,” the voice told them in a professional tone. “He’s now held in…”

Greg couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence. His heartbeats sounded too loud in his ears. He stood there, frozen. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock looked concerned enough Greg was sure he would drop the case and go where Mycroft’s held now. Should Greg join him? He wanted to see Mycroft. But he couldn’t leave the crime scene, it’s his job. Seeing Mycroft wasn’t urgent.

“Lestrade, we’re going,” Sherlock took the choice away from him after his eyes accidentally met Greg’s eyes.

“Donovan, wrap up after you’re done,” Greg managed to leave his sergeant a command before he followed the detective consultant into a cabbie Sherlock had hauled off the street in half a second flat. The short drive to the hospital was terrible. The silence.

When Sherlock gave his name to the reception, the nurse was quick to assign someone else to direct them to the correct ward. The door was opened. There was no name on it.

Greg came to a halt when he saw that there was someone inside already, a blonde man Greg didn’t recognize, decked in what seemed to be an expensive suit, dark grey and closely fitted to accentuate his body. And it was a beautiful, muscular, strong body, matched with a stern face and arctic blue eyes that seemed to have seen too much.

Greg watched as the man talked to Mycroft in hushed tones.  _Who is he? A bodyguard? Where’s Mycroft’s ever-present PA? What’s his relation to Mycroft?_

 “For Goodness sake,” Sherlock had enough of standing behind the doorway and barged in. “Mycroft. Still alive I see.”

 “Sherlock,” Greg sighed.

The older Holmes shifted his gaze away from the stranger to Sherlock and rolled his eyes. “I’m so thankful for your affection, dear brother.”

“Mycroft. I suppose I shouldn’t even ask how you’re feeling,” Greg greeted.

Mycroft was different. Greg had never seen him so weak, the bags under his eyes so pronounced. Even when Sherlock wounded him in one of his episodes, Mycroft had never looked this pale, this…breakable. This human, someone Greg should protect, not an untouchable God.

 “I’m all right, actually,” Mycroft smiled ruefully as he shifted to adjust his posture. He was lying on his side, his whole upper body wrapped in bandages. “Painkillers. Do forgive me if I start to talk nonsense or become too long-winded.”

“You always talk nonsense, Mycroft,” Sherlock quipped. “And you, mister, are staring.” He shot the blonde man with arctic blue eyes a look of disdain.

The man didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “I shall be going. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

“Mr Bond,” Mycroft stated as he walked away, “Don’t over think.” [4]

The man only paused for half a beat and stalked off as soon as Mycroft finished.

Greg blinked at the display of antisocial behaviour. “Who’s that?”

“James Bond, from SIS,” Sherlock answered before Mycroft could open his mouth, “Her Majesty’s finest.”

Something flashed across the elder Holmes’ eyes. It was gone before Greg could identify it. “Why, I didn’t know you care, Sherlock.”

The consulting detective only shrugged.

Mycroft turned slightly toward Greg and smiled wanly. “Detective Inspector, I’m sorry I couldn’t drop you the call.”

“No problem,” Greg inwardly shook the weird feeling that had resulted from the realization that  _Mycroft could get hurt_  and smiled as he stepped closer. “You didn’t plan on getting hurt. Unless of course, you did.”

 “For Goodness sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was the second time he’d said it within ten minutes. Greg wondered what had put him in a snit. “Now what I’ve ascertained that you’re still annoying, Mycroft, please do excuse me. I have other matters to attend to.”

“You do?” Greg looked up sharply. “Sally must have wrapped up by now.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock waved his hand. “I’ve got the leads, I’ll pursue them.”

Greg frowned. “Sherlock,” he warned.

“I promise I won’t withhold or damage any evidence, and I promise I’ll tell you everything I find out,” Sherlock said quickly in a flat tone. Not convincing.

“Please take your leave, gentlemen,” Mycroft shrugged. His eyes accidentally met Greg’s and Greg could see…loneliness there. “The drug is starting to make me sleepy. I don’t think I will make a good company now.” Mycroft was lying.

(Greg didn’t want to think too deeply about what it meant, that  _he_ of all people could tell that Mycroft, the ‘iceman’ with the most impenetrable poker face, was lying.)

“You’ve never-”

“Then, I’m coming with you, Sherlock,” Greg interrupted with his best ‘don’t even bother trying’ tone. “I’ll be back later,” he promised the patient on the mattress as Sherlock grumbled. He hoped he managed to convey his apology with his eyes. “Have a good rest,” he surprised himself again when he reached out to squeeze the elder Holmes’ arm.

Greg pretended that he didn’t see Sherlock quirking his eyebrow in amusement.

(And the sight of the blush that spread on Mycroft’s cheeks did funny things to his organs.)

 

16.

The revelation happened like this:

“…Mr Holmes,” Inspector Lestrade treaded carefully.

Mycroft sighed inwardly and drew on all of his willpower to smile at the other man. “Yes?”

The copper opened his mouth once, looked aside for half a second and pursed his lips before he started again. “This has to stop.”

Mycroft turned defensive at the get go. “The drug-taking? I thought we agreed long ago that it should,” he said lightly, as he slowly swirled the wine in his hand, one eye on the yarder.

Inspector Lestrade clenched his fists on his lap, and for a moment Mycroft wondered whether his companion would punch him this time. He knew he could be infuriating. Hell, within the past one year (had they known each other for a year already? Time flew) there were certainly more times Lestrade had looked more murderous than this.

The police officer only ploughed on after taking a deep breath. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Lestrade’s tone was 90% frustration and 10% desperation. The latter threw Mycroft off. “How would Sherlock ever be well, if he’s not-?”

“I’m not talking about the rehab. It’s painful, but necessary, I get that,” Lestrade interrupted, and Mycroft had to pause, taken aback.  _If he wasn’t against the way I literally kidnapped Sherlock and forced him to go on rehab then what...?_   Mycroft didn’t have to wonder long. “I’m talking about the flat-search,” he answered the question in Mycroft’s head.

Mycroft stiffened. “What’s wrong with it? Weren’t you tired of living with him, before, since he’d wrecked your flat with his experiments and made your wife’s patience run thin? Isn’t it more convenient with the places I’ve shortlisted? You-”

“That’s it!” Lestrade interrupted him a second time. If he was any other person he would not hear the end of Mycroft’s irritation. *“Sherlock is the way he is because you don’t let him grow.” The yarder’s voice was firm and brimming with a dangerous anger, yet there was an undercurrent of concern there, too. “He deletes knowledge of society, social norms and etiquette because you’ve always solved his problems for him. Now you’ve created a person who will always be reliant on you. If you don’t stop, he’ll be in even _more_  serious trouble.” [2]

Mycroft was stunned.

“This will only harm your relationship further, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade continued in a quieter voice, though he was no less steely. “I don’t believe that Sherlock doesn’t have any self-control. He does. And you know the only way he’ll stay clean  _this time_ ,” Mycroft winced at the insinuation, “is if he himself desires it.”

Mycroft put down the wine glass and looked at his hands.

“Trust him,” Lestrade took another deep breath. A callused hand lay atop his sleeve and Mycroft looked up to a pair of steady, imploring brown eyes. “Trust me. We’ll get through this.”

 The detective inspector left when Mycroft didn’t seem like he was going to say any word.

The thought rested heavily in his heart, tossing and turning his brains, causing him to relook at certain memories, decisions, actions, from different angles. He was dismayed to find that DI Lestrade was right.

The Gods must be conspiring against him, because that same week Perseus and a double-oh agent went missing in the Middle East and Mycroft had to arrange the speediest retrieval he’d ever organised his whole life. He didn’t care that his Masters might be unhappy with his blatant abuse of power and he had to blow the moon in compensation. Mycroft wouldn’t forgive himself if Perseus, if Sherlock, if any one of his brothers died when he could have done something about it.

 “I’m not going back to the field, ever,” Perseus said, seven days after he was hauled back to England, his legs twisted unnaturally, his skin a myriad of white, blue and red, his chest barely moving, two days after he woke up next to Mycroft holding vigil at the youngest Holmes’ bedside. Perseus was surprisingly calm and steady for a person who’d been traumatized within an inch of his life barely a week prior.

“Oh,” Mycroft raked his brain for anything, any sign of  _disdain_  he’d accidentally let out in the past two days. Perseus had never shown any indication of hating legwork, when they had weekly lunches and talked about MI6 and Whitehall, Mummy and Sherlock.  

Perseus only needed to look at Mycroft for a while before he picked up on the auburn-haired man’s hesitancy. “It’s not you. I’d never particularly loved fieldwork in the past. Now, I just…dislike it,” he paused. “There’s something you’re not telling me, is there? And it’s related to Sherlock.”

Mycroft sighed inwardly. Perseus was a Holmes, of course he would notice.

Mycroft didn’t answer straight away. He looked at the sheaf of paperwork on his lap for a long, long time, his eyes zeroing on the red circles he’d inked on the report, before he ventured. “How could you stand me?”

Perseus stared. Mycroft let himself be scrutinized. He watched as Perseus’ hands tightened around the Styrofoam cup of weak tea (the best the hospital could give) before one of them reached for his hand.

“You know, I’d never felt…restricted by you,” Percy’s voice was so very soft when he began. “Maybe it’s because my experiments are a lot less physically destructive than Sherlock’s. Maybe because I’ve realised, much earlier on, that once I understand the rationales behind your rules and interventions, and negotiate with you persistently enough, instead of rebelling outright, you would hear me out.”

At the end of his little speech, Perseus looked up from their linked hands. “I know you only mean well,” he breathed.  _It’s Sherlock fault as much as yours_ , were the words left unsaid. He curled his lips tentatively, and there was so much unconditional love there.

Mycroft’s sight turned surprisingly blurry. He clasped his baby brother’s hand in return, and hoped that it was enough to convey his gratitude.

(It was also around that time, Mycroft mused, that he started falling for DI Lestrade. Alas, the silver fox was married, and there was no way he would be attracted to him anyway. Or so he’d thought.)

 

17.

“Why?” James questioned.

“Because you are important, Mr Bond,” Holmes smiled. “England needs you.”

James snorted. “Everyone knows you’re more important than me, Director. England would fall without you.”

“Hardly,” the politician shook his head in amusement. “Thinking of oneself as overly important is a common pitfall of man, Mr Bond. I admit I do fall prey to it quite often, but no, England was well before I was born, and she will continue to be majestic after I depart.”

James scowled. “This is not about England, isn’t it?”

Holmes merely shot him an enigmatic stare. It’s  _maddening_.

A beat, and the people who’d been behind the door, letting James have this infuriating conversation, decided that they didn’t want to wait anymore.

“Mycroft. Still alive I see.” James heard, and turned.

And couldn’t blink.

Holmes’ visitor looked so much like Q, or at least who he would be in five years.  The hair, the shape of his eyes, the cheekbones, the tall lean frame, the pale skin – they were the same.

“Sherlock,” the stranger’s companion sighed his name in a patronizing tone.

Holmes rolled his eyes at his visitor. “I’m so thankful for your affection, dear brother.”

And suddenly everything made sense.

Sherlock Holmes, the private detective who had been rising in popularity and gotten himself frequently featured on local newspapers recently. Sherlock Holmes, younger brother of Mycroft Holmes. And older brother of ‘Q’ Holmes.

The intimacy. The mannerisms Q shared with Mycroft, the little habits that belayed how familiar they were with each other. _Of course_.

“You, mister, are staring,” the detective’s disapproving stare brought James back to reality.

_He’s got more sharp edges than the boy,_ James thought amusedly. “I shall be going. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

“Mr Bond,” the Director’s tone was more transparent this time, and it was pleading ( _for what?)._  “Don’t over think.”

James almost reeled back in response. As it was, he just left the ward quietly, too many questions in his mind.

 

18.

“When are you going to be done with the matchmaking?” Sherlock snarled.

Q and Mycroft shared a look. “Why, would you like to have our assistance in your love life?” Mycroft voiced their thoughts.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

(Later, much later, when James Bond and John met and it was revealed that they had a  _history_ , Sherlock joined “the matchmaking” efforts. Only after ascertaining that the spy had nothing but good intentions for his brother, of course.) [3]

TBC

 

This should end soon. If Sherlock’s death is not included in the narration. Also, [Curiosity](../../570977) by [King_Katherine](../../../users/King_Katherine/pseuds/King_Katherine) has become my headcanon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Originally, I included John, but I’m getting really enamoured with the possibility of past James/John, so the ex-lovers will meet another time
> 
> 2\. Almost the whole thing starting from the ‘*’ is lifted from chapter 4 of ‘Collision’ (http://archiveofourown.org/works/474688) by ice_evanesco
> 
> 3\. Concept is from Big Brother, Little Brother by White_Noise. I would like to have a try on writing ‘big-brother-warns-younger-brother’s-boyfriend-not-to-hurt-Q’ too.
> 
> 4\. In contrast, why did Mycroft seem like he’s given 007 his blessing already? My theory is this: at this point, Q is already in love with James. Mycroft knows this, had memorised Bond’s entire life, and gone on a mission with him to ascertain his assumptions. His conclusions are that Bond is a good guy deep inside and Bond cares about Q. The most possible way Bond hurts Q is thorugh avoiding Q because he’s scared Q will die because of him (that, and the way Bond recklessly places his life on the line). Well, Q’s job already gives him plenty of danger (Q is more likely to die from enemies kidnapping him for knowledge of MI6 security than from his association with Bond), so Mycroft wants Bond to stop over thinking and just start that frigging relationship with his brother already.


	4. 19-23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has Q being BAMF :)
> 
> Not Brit-picked, I’m sorry.

19.

James sat down in his hotel room for the week (he hadn’t bothered to get a new flat when he’s out of the country most of the time), and made a short list.

He trusted Q with his life: check.

They had pedantic arguments like an old married couple: check.

Q found him attractive: double check (of course James had noticed the way the younger man looked at him. And the snarky, awkward,  _endearing_  flirting).

He found Q attractive: triple check. (That nape, the nerdy spectacles, his irresistible hair. God.)

Q cared about him: …check, somewhat. With the amount of weapons he’d broken, quartermasters who didn’t care about him would have done him in already. (And he didn’t miss the way Q’s breath hitch, sometimes, after he’d had a brush against death and barely emerged victorious.)

He cared about Q: … (must he admit it?)

James blinked. Bloody hell, they had been…a couple. Sans the sex, and the confession.

 _That could be easily remedied_ , he thought.

(The question was: did he want to?)

 

20.

The day Percy lost his name started like any other day.

He’d left his flat a little later than usual, sure. His cat wasn’t behaving properly, clinging to his leg with her claws as he put on his shoes, but she often behaved like that when the day was cold.

Percy was reading the reports on the prototypes of radio transmitters with stronger, steadier connections when the alarm that signaled there had been a security breach blared. *He joined Q in frantically tracing the source of the attack and they were so baffled by the result neither of them reacted until it was too late.

The explosion happened above the basement, where Q branch was, but the gas leaks were causing chunks of the ceiling to rain. Percy followed the emergency procedures and assisted other employees in evacuating with thumb drives containing information on very important projects. The rest had to be given up because people’s safety was more important.

The smoke made Percy feel sick and the darkness reminded him of the incidence that had caused him to give up fieldwork years ago, but he was determined to help Q, who was still fighting to gather information needed to bring down their attacker. They stayed until the last possible minute. As they exited, a huge part of the ceiling collapsed on Q. Percy had cried and tried to pry the older man out, but Q merely pressed the external drive to his hands and told him to get out because it would be foolish for him to die here too, as MI6 would lose all the knowledge related to the attack. Percy gritted his teeth and left, but not without mourning for his fatherly figure.

M passed him on his way to the ambulance, cold fury invading her piercing blue eyes. “Q, you’re to go immediately to the other base and begin working on this problem. Someone from medical will follow you.” [1]

Percy barely registered that she had addressed  _him_. He choked inwardly. He knew he was going to be Q someday, but he’d never wished the circumstances to be like this.

“Yes, M,” he was nothing but calm in the exterior as he indicated his acceptance. The turmoil inside remained.

(Percy had never realised how…pervasive the title was. His life had been pretty much a secret to the public since Mycroft’s job became increasingly dangerous, but it was only when Percy stared at his new ID card – it only said ‘Q’ and it was still accepted everywhere – the severity of his responsibilities dawned on him.

He’d never regretted it, though. Q loved his job.)

 

21.

Gregory spied a familiar figure as he walked down the road. He grinned to himself. “Jeremy!”

The thin, gangly young man, still with his bird nest hair and old man jumper, turned away from the store display of male clothing he’d been staring raptly at, and smiled at Greg. “Gregory,” he greeted.

“Window shopping?” Greg shrugged at the store display.

Jeremy blushed. “Ah, yes,” he shoved his hands to his pockets and fidgeted, a little. “How about you? On your way home?”

 _Shopping for the boyfriend_ , Greg chuckled inwardly.  _So sweet_. “Nope, meeting a friend at a pub a few blocks away,” he moved his chin to point at the general direction of the place.

“I see,” Jeremy cocked his head, his expression turning thoughtful, “is she, um, someone you’re interested in?”

“Oh, no! John’s a pal,” Greg shook his head and laughed.

Jeremy looked disappointed again. “No one has caught your eye yet?” He was strangely too invested in this.

Greg thought of dark auburn curls against pale, long neck and thin wide lips in a plumy smile and it was his to blush. “Uh…not exactly,” he shuffled his feet. Greg watched as Jeremy’s face lighted up with interest and dreaded the question that would pass the technician’s mouth next.

Luckily, he was saved from the awkwardness. “Greg!” a familiar voice called.

Both of them turned to see the good doctor getting out of a cab and approaching Greg. “Fancy meeting you earlier than expected,” he greeted cheerfully.

Sherlock was half a step behind his flatmate. He looked past Greg at Jeremy and there was muted surprise on his face, his bottom lip dropping open a fraction and his eyes widening minutely. It was a very subtle change of expression. Greg wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t known Sherlock for a while.

Greg didn’t know what to make of that. “Sherlock, you’re joining us?” He was too surprised by Sherlock’s presence.

“You know I don’t frequent pubs, Lestrade. Too much stimuli,” Sherlock spoke, disgust apparent in his features. “I have business nearby. It’s convenient to cab together.”

“So that’s that,” John directed his smile to Jeremy. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Oh, no,” Jeremy returned with a friendly smile of his own, “Gregory and I met here by chance.” The bespectacled man offered his hand as he introduced himself, “Jeremy. Jeremy McKenzie.”

“John Watson, but please call me John,” the doctor shook the proffered hand chirpily.

Greg swore he heard Sherlock hiding a snort under his breath before he too shook Jeremy’s hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you,” his voice sounded a bit unnatural, a bit too silky, “ _Jeremy_.” The name was almost hissed.

“Sherlock,” Jeremy’s smile looked a bit strained.

Now that the two were standing side by side, Greg noticed that the similarities between them were really  _glaring_. Both tall, thin and pale, with strong facial bone structures…it was as though they were related.

Greg shook his head inwardly. “Shall we go, John?” he asked the good doctor.

“You’re welcome to join us,” John told Jeremy as Sherlock straightened his coat collar and turned the other direction, about to walk away.

What occurred next happened so fast Greg could barely register what was happening. A white, unassuming van stopped on the road near the pavement they were located. Men who had their faces covered emerged and manhandled both Sherlock and Jeremy, covering their mouths and noses with what must be chloroform and dragging them to the vehicle. Greg and John fought by the skin of their teeth before Greg could feel the impact of a blunt object on the back of his head and his sight turned dark. Just before he went down, he saw John being chloroformed as well.

 _Bugger_ , Greg’s last thought as his head hit the ground,  _I hope Mycroft’s got this_.

When he came to, Greg felt like as though he’d drunk three bottles of whisky the night before  _and_  been hit by a bus. His head was aching so bad his sight was blurry, but he was still able to survey his surroundings.

The four of them were in an abandoned factory of some sort (hah, déjà vu. Greg would laugh so hard if Mycroft was behind this. But Mycroft wouldn’t be this violent, and the man was still in hospital last Greg checked…which was less than twelve hours ago). From the scant light that escaped through the cracks on the wall, Greg deduced that only a couple of hours had passed, at most. They couldn’t be that far from London.

Each of them was tied to a chair, arms and legs both, and the chair was heavy enough Greg would break his back trying to stand. Their belongings (wallets, Greg’s badge, the gun John owned Greg wasn’t supposed to know, and so on) were scattered on a table far, far away across the room. Greg was gagged. He couldn’t see John but he could hear the good doctor slowly returning to the waking world with a muffled groan. Sherlock and Jeremy were not gagged however. The two brunettes stared back at him when he peered at them, Jeremy with a concerned look, while Sherlock’s gaze was pensive. Greg had no doubt his mind was working at a mile a minute.

 _Who on earth would kidnap us?_ Greg wondered.  _Is it the sick fuck behind the serial bombing…Moriarty?_  Greg peered at Jeremy again, and spied panic in his eyes _. Moriarty’s henchmen must have confused him for Sherlock and brought him along. Poor chap._

They didn’t have to wait long. Someone entered the room and approached them, navigating through empty racks of boxed inventories and dilapidated machineries. One man, an average-sized man with close-cropped red hair, was dressed relatively well in a suit, his eyes covered by a sunscreen. Three burly thugs settled around him as he stood a few yards away from Sherlock and Jeremy.

“Now,” the grin on the redhead’s face was feral, “which of you two pretty boys is the Quartermaster?” he looked at them expectantly.

 _Quartermaster?_  Greg blinked.  _What is Moriarty playing at?_

Sherlock’s answer was border-lining rude. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I’ve been in a lot of newspapers recently, despite my wishes. You should know my identity if you read them.”

The redhead twitched. “We can’t rule the possibility of a double life, can we?” He turned to Jeremy and gave him a nudge on the shin. A rather hard nudge. More like, a kick. “How about you?”

“M-my name is Jeremy. I w-work at PwC and,” the younger man was hyperventilating, “I don’t know anything you’re talking about, p-please let me go-”

The ‘boss’ (Greg had taken to referring to the arsehole as such in his head) cocked his head and one of the thugs punched Jeremy on the face. The young man moaned and bent his head down in pain.

“Let’s try again, shall we?” The redhead said. The thug grabbed Jeremy by the chunk of his messy hair and the bespectacled man whimpered. “P-please,” his lip was split and there was a crack on one of his lenses, “I don’t know anything-” his breath was taken out of him when a fist made its home in his gut.

Greg craned his neck and looked around, searching for potential exits more frantically. Sherlock, though, had his eyes trained on Jeremy. There was anger in his clear eyes, a low growl low in his throat, and Greg was momentarily sidetracked.

“I’m bored,” Sherlock said next, purposely provoking the attackers, “I’m not interested in watching a piece of meat playing with a sandbag-”

The genius was punched on the face for his taunts. Greg heard John’s muffled protest at his back.

“Too impatient, darling?” the ‘boss’ smirked at the detective behind his thug and Sherlock only shot him a disdainful look as he spat on his kidnapper’s patent leather shoes. “At least something is happening,” he huffed.

The tedious beating continued for a while, with Sherlock reacting like a wall, and Jeremy sobbing and pleading to be let free. The thugs turned their attention to Greg and John at some point, but both of them were used to this, used to violence and bruises and it was kind of impossible to give the kidnappers what they wanted if Greg didn’t even  _know_  what it was about.

The ‘boss’ looked annoyed. “Bring out the toys,” he ordered his henchmen and scowled, “you asked for this, I swear.” 

There were knives, pliers and…was that a hedge shears!?  _Mycroft, where are you?_

“Playtime’s over,” the redhead snapped his fingers. John was dragged into everyone’s line of sight, and one of the kidnappers held a knife his throat. The doctor’s eyes were wide with alarm, his spine straight as a rod.

“Let this be the last time I ask,” he hissed at Jeremy and Sherlock, “which of you is the Quartermaster?” As he said this, the thug purposely nicked the doctor’s skin. A drop of blood trailed down his neck and stained his shirt.

Sherlock took a sharp breath and glared at Jeremy. “Just end this game of pretension already,” he yelled at the younger man, “Q!”

Greg blinked profusely.  _Did you seriously just sacrifice Jeremy?_  He was about to glare at the detective in righteous anger when Jeremy’s expression  _transformed_  from that of a scared and confused civilian caught in a crossfire to annoyance and sharp intelligence in the blink of an eye. The normally geeky nice bloke hissed at Sherlock, “You wanker.”

The next sequence of actions also happened so fast Greg could barely follow it. The moment two of the thugs went for Jeremy/Q/whoever he was,  _both_  Sherlock and Jeremy (yeah, let’s refer to him as Jeremy for the time being, for Greg’s sanity) managed to free their hands from the ropes. Sherlock attempted the impossible, planted his feet on the ground and threw himself (and the heavy chair) at one of the thugs, while Jeremy threw something that looked like a pen to the ‘boss’. The pen hit an arm and _exploded_ with a blinding light.

“Gregory,” amidst the smoke and black spots that had dominated his sight, Greg recognised Jeremy’s voice. There was a touch on his legs, and soon he found his limbs freed. Greg wrenched off the duct tape covering his mouth. “Who the bleeding-”

“Not now,” Jeremy eyed him sharply, “we need to get out of here. Come along-”

The outline of a huge obstacle appeared in front of them. It was one of the muscular henchmen, who had managed to track their movements. “I’ve got this,” Greg pushed Jeremy behind him. The bloke was skin and bones.

The henchman took out his gun.  _Trickier than I thought,_  Greg cursed inwardly, but he ploughed forward, keeping close to the opponent, giving him no chance to fire. As they were fighting for the gun, Jeremy knocked the henchman out with a blow to the back of the neck.

“Let’s go,” he pocketed the gun which had fallen to the floor before Greg could take it. By this time, however, the smoke had mostly cleared out, and Greg could see more people entering the storeroom and running after them. On the bright side, it seemed Sherlock managed to free John and both of them were wrestling against some of their kidnappers. “Sherlock!” Jeremy shouted across the room, “Vatican cameos!”

It must be a cue of some sort, because both John and Sherlock ducked, and Jeremy fired two shots, hitting the opponents on the shoulders accurately.

“Faster!” Jeremy told the two men as Greg gaped at him.  _That’s not how civilians handle guns. A tech staff at PwC my arse!_

Once Sherlock and John had caught up, Jeremy led them through a door at the corner and a twisting and turning hallway. He took out a smartphone from his pants (Greg didn’t want to know where he’d hid it such that it escaped their captors’ notice) and tossed the gun to Sherlock as he thumbed through what looked like the layout of a building. Was that for  _this_  building? How did he even know where they were? “Turn to the left after the third right and we’ll escape through the sewers,” he told the gang, still fiddling with his phone, “it’ll lead us to the Thames.”

Sherlock huffed. “Why wasn’t there a rescue from your Masters?”

“I didn’t send them a distress message,” Jeremy rolled his eyes. “There is no need for it. The kidnappers are amateurs. They didn’t even get us out from the country.”

Greg caught John’s eyes and he was relieved that he wasn’t the only one who was utterly lost.

“They would have, if they haven’t confused me for you,” Sherlock clucked his tongue, “Transporting four people instead of one, illegally, is rather more complicated. In any case, amateurs or not, they nearly had John killed!” his tone rose in anger.

Jeremy paused and turned to look at Sherlock. He opened his mouth.

He didn’t get to say anything, as the quartet suddenly found themselves surrounded by armed men.

Sherlock looked murderous, the lines of his body taut and screaming that he was ready for a spectacular fight. Jeremy gulped and trained his eyes on one of the guns pointed at him, the thumb of his right hand hovering above the touch screen of his smartphone, which had an icon that looked suspiciously like a bomb on it [3].

“Now, kittens,” the redhead ‘boss’ from earlier appeared, looking very pissed. Well, if Greg had blisters and burns on his arm from an exploding pen, he would be, too. “No place to hide now,” he sing-songed.

Apparently, it was a bit too soon to say, because before Sherlock, John, Jeremy and Greg were re-apprehended, the armed men started dropping like flies. Shot in the back. From outside the windows, Greg could hear the screeching sound of car tires.

The familiar figure of Mycroft’s PA strolled into their view from the corner. She was wearing trousers and her hair was tied to a ponytail. For once, her eyes weren’t on her blackberry; there was a gun in her hand instead.

“Anastasia,” Jeremy greeted.

“Quartermaster,” she nodded at him. “The car outside will take you to medical.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not a helicopter?”

The quartermaster grimaced. “Say that after you’ve survived a plane crash, Sherlock.”

The moment four of them (plus a nonplused driver behind a partition) were inside the car, Greg couldn’t hold the question back anymore. “Who the hell are you?”

“Excellent question,” John added. “Not quite a stranger, eh?”

“It’s...never meant to be personal,” the quartermaster shot Greg an apologetic look. “I can’t give you my name. You can call me Q.” He shared a brief look with Sherlock before he continued, “I’m Sherlock’s younger brother.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. He’d known Sherlock for  _years_ , and he’d never known. He didn’t know whether he should be shocked, or hurt.

“Younger brother,” John echoed in disbelief. His expression mirrored what Greg felt.

Sherlock looked upset. ** “There’s no need to make this more uncomfortable than it is, John.”

“You have a younger brother and you’ve never mentioned him once, to us!?” [2] His voice rose in volume and pitch. By the end of the sentence he was shouting. “It’s a big deal!”

“Please, Dr Watson,” Q placated, “it’s not entirely Sherlock’s choice. As the head of MI6’s armoury, I possess skills and knowledge others would kill for. It is pertinent that my identity, along with my connections, be kept a secret.”

 “Mycroft’s job is dangerous,” Greg stated, recalling the man who was still in hospital, “yet I met him on the same unfortunate day I first stumbled upon you.”

Sherlock shot the DI a look that said  _are you dumb?_  “I certainly never introduced him to you. He’s the overbearing pompous arse who barged into your life himself,” he sneered. “In the first place, for any government to be effective, the governed needs to know who to listen to. Everyone who matters knows Mycroft. Q, however, should be invisible.”

John pursed his lips. He could not fight Sherlock’s logic. Hell, if John was as  _normal_  as Greg, half the time he probably couldn’t even follow it. It was clear, from his face, that he was still dismayed.

The rest of the journey was spent in horrible silence, the good doctor’s expression sour, Sherlock unrepentant, and Q a little guilty. When they  _finally_ reached medical, the bespectacled brunette grabbed Greg’s sleeve. “Detective inspector, I have to introduce myself as Jeremy McKenzie to anyone who isn’t MI6 agents or family,” he spoke quickly, his voice quiet as a breath. “I never meant to trick you at all.”

Greg stared at Q’s sincere eyes behind his cracked lenses for a beat, and flashed him a wry grin. “I know, kid,” he shrugged, “no worries.”

The Holmeses. Never could say no to them.

 

22.

The next day, M called Q to his office first thing in the morning. The older man shot Q a dirty look and tossed a file containing the profiles of yesterday’s kidnappers at him. “Don’t play this trick again, Q. Send that distress message to  _us_.” He seemed annoyed for owing Mycroft more favours.

Q returned to his workstation with a mild headache from the scolding, and groaned when he spotted Agent 007 lounging around the Q branch. “Bond,” he groused, “What do you want?”

The spy’s arctic blue eyes lingered on Q’s bruised face for a moment too long before he planted his arse on the edge of Q’s desk, like he owned it. “Mission in Egypt tomorrow,” he said lazily.

“Back to active duty so soon, 007,” Q sighed as he slipped behind his desk and started rummaging for the standard parcel of Walther PPK and radio transmitter. He’d taken to keeping a stock of Bond-imprinted guns in his drawer for Goodness sake, the agent had lost the Walther so many times it nearly gave Q a hernia. “Not that it would be detrimental for my sanity. Quite the contrary, in fact,” he remarked as he passed the black box to the agent. Bond on forced medical leave was a nightmare. “Should I even bother telling you to bring my equipments back in tact?”

Bond’s fingers brushed against Q’s slowly as he picked up his tools, and from the way the blonde was staring at him raptly, their faces closer than what was appropriate, the touch was obviously intended. “I will try this time,” 007 spoke softly, and Q’s heart jumped to his throat.

Q sat down and pretended to be busy with his computers to put more distance between them. Bond nonchalantly retrieved a small package from his inner pocket and placed it in front of Q as the younger man was inwardly telling his heart to stop beating so fast.

It was a pack of Hungarian tea biscuits. Caramelised.

“I forgot to pass you this,” Bond said, a piss poor excuse of an explanation as Q stared, not knowing what to make of the…souvenir. “Take care, Q.”

By the time Q looked up, the agent had already disappeared.

 

23.

Mycroft loves with well-thought-of acts of service that means the world and digital eyes that follow you everywhere. Sherlock loves like a fire, explosive like the rest of him, a sleek, dangerous big cat who pounces on anyone who hurts and threatens his beloved.

Percy loves unconditionally. He always does.

  


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Everything from ‘*’ to [1] are borrowed from ‘This is Her Body’ by Chaerring (http://archiveofourown.org/works/565584).
> 
> 2\. The line starting from ‘**’ to [2] is borrowed from ‘Family Secret’ by Valeria2067 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/566104).
> 
> 3\. Oh, yeah, Q can totally turn his own smartphone to a grenade. Or cause a gas explosion at another part of the factory. Take your pick.


	5. 24-Fin

24.

Mycroft realised that his baby brother was in love with James Bond on a Wednesday.

To be fair, they had their weekly lunch on Wednesdays, so if the falling part were to happen beforehand (like, on Tuesday, may be [1]), Mycroft wouldn’t have known either.

He was sitting in one of the nondescript black government cars opposite the opening to MI6’s secret base, watching for the familiar figure when his eyes stumbled upon Perseus (or, shall we say, Q) bantering with an MI6 agent.

He was tall, muscular and fair-haired (Mycroft couldn’t see the colouring from the tinted windows), suave in his well-fitted Ford suit. He had the air of a 00 agent, with an easygoing gait but alert eyes. And he was a 00 agent, Mycroft suddenly remembered, 007, James Bond. He was a part of Mycroft’s entourage in a negotiation in Switzerland. _Mr Bond has changed so much_ , Mycroft thought as he studied the agent’s face. _Something has happened, something tragic and traumatic-_

Mycroft’s thoughts were derailed as he saw Q showing the agent a coy smile. To most outsiders, that leftward quirk of lips meant nothing, but Mycroft knew his brother. _Are they flirting?_

Q was behaving most…unusually.

Mycroft waited until the agent walked away and disappeared upon a corner before letting his presence known by telling the driver to inch towards the younger Holmes.

To his credit, Q was not flustered when he entered the car. His eyes were dilated, though, and there were residues of a blush remaining on his pale cheeks. Mycroft catalogued these into his brain as he greeted, “Q. Would Korean be acceptable?”

“Absolutely,” the breaths Q took were slightly deeper than normal.

Mycroft paused for a beat before he cocked his head to the side. “Was that a colleague? The man you were talking to.”

Q blinked twice rapidly. He always blinked faster when he was nervous. “Yes.”

“A double-oh agent?” Mycroft pursued. “Is he the one you’ve been complaining about, the reckless one that never returns his weapons intact and depletes your budget?” _The one you formed a false trail for, barely one month into your new job?_

Between them, there were rarely any secrets. There were already so few people of their security clearance level to share workplace stresses with. Mycroft complained about difficult politicians to Q too, sometimes.

“Yes,” Q’s cheeks burned a brighter red.

Suddenly, something clicked in Mycroft’s mind.

Mycrof did not comment. Both of them knew about John, of course, and Sherlock’s emotional attachment to the doctor and vice versa. Q knew of Mycroft’s attraction to DI Lestrade. And now…

“He’s a complicated man,” Mycroft voiced out suddenly. He didn’t need to observe, most 00 agents are complicated; it’s the job.

Q pursed his lips. “I know.”

 _Well_ , Mycroft closed the topic and moved on to another conversation. They were never quite normal, the Holmeses. It stood to reason that they would not wish for mainstream ideas of happiness, and hence they would not be attracted to people who could provide them those. An ex-army doctor with PSTD and an unhealthy addiction to danger. A divorced workaholic police officer with self-sacrificing tendencies. Would a trained assassin-cum-spy with an aversion to commitment and mile-long history of casualties be so bad? [2]

( _Later, much later, in that mansion in the middle of nowhere, behind the cells, when they were waiting for their tormentors, Mycroft engaged James Bond in a conversation. “Who would you be willing to die for?”_

_Bond quirked an eyebrow, but entertained him nevertheless. “England,” he answered predictably, yet the conviction in his voice made Mycroft smile inwardly. “The Queen. You, Director.”_

_“Well, I’m flattered,” Mycroft remarked. “No one else?”_

_The pause Bond took was far too telling. “Yes.”_

_Mycroft’s smile widened. “Let’s play a game. Shoot, shag, marry.”_

_Bond’s eyebrows almost disappeared in his headline. “I don’t know anyone you know, Mr Holmes,” he spoke with ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this’ in his tone, “and the people in the HQ can hear us.”_

_“Oh, amuse us,” Moneypenny spoke through the tiny, tiny piece imbedded in Bond’s ear. Cutting edge **invasive** technology. No one would have realized it was there._

_“You know my assistant. I know M, Q, Tanner, Moneypenny and most of the people you know in MI6,” Mycroft didn’t budge. “We have time to spare.”_

_Bond sighed. “Fine.”_

_“M, Moneypenny, and Q,” Mycroft laid down the choices, “you can’t take too long to think.”_

_“Shoot Moneypenny,” Bond smirked at her groan. “It’s revenge, baby. Shag M,” he remained poker-faced as his boss gave an amused snort, “and marry Q.”_

_Mycroft’s smile persisted. “Why? Why not marry M and shag Q?”_

_“Your turn,” Bond’s gruff refusal was, again, very telling. “Same people.”_

_The screech of the door-hinge signaled that they had a visitor. “Time’s up, I think,” Mycroft was saved._

_Bond narrowed his eyes. “This is unfair,” he grumbled._ [3])

 

25.

Q stumbled upon exotic knick-knacks from faraway lands and his mug magically refilled with piping hot Twinning’s finest earl grey ten times before he told Bond straight to his face the next moment the big lug hovered around the quartermaster’s workstation like a semi-permanent fixture.

“Just ask me out already.”

Q honestly didn’t know where the confidence in his voice came from. He certainly didn’t feel it.

The Q branch went deadly quiet and still, all Q’s minions (interns) staring at their manager in a mixture of awe and disbelief, as though they assumed Q was unaware of the tension in the room whenever agent 007 entered Q’s personal space without permission. _Who do they think he is_? Q thought in annoyance. He might be socially awkward, but he was most definitely _not daft_. For goodness sake.

Bond, to his credit, didn’t show any emotion. Oh, who was Q kidding; the only times Bond showed emotions were when he wanted them known to the other party. Without batting an eyelash, he spoke evenly. “Let’s have dinner [4].”

They ended up hitting Q’s bed without the meal, Bond bending Q’s knees and holding his ankles as his [insert body part here] did wicked things to Q’s [insert body part here]. Q panted and moaned and writhed as Bond screwed him to the mattress, and left a bite mark deep on Bond’s shoulder before he came. He’d never screamed that hard his entire life. Luckily his closest neighbour was away that night.

The next morning, Q expected to wake up next to cold air and an empty space, perhaps a dent on his bed with traces of another man’s scent indicating that someone other than Q was there, or even his cat when she was gracious.

Q woke up next to a cat, all right. A big, muscular, human-shaped cat spooning him from the back, hot as a furnace. Q squirmed, quietly trying to move out of the embrace, when a loud ‘hmmph’ could be heard from behind. Bond’s mouth and nose had wound up buried in Q’s dense dark locks. Q blushed in embarrassment as Bond spat hair out of his mouth and pressed his nose against Q’s nape instead. “Morning,” Q felt the vibration against his skin and shivered.

“You stayed,” he responded, and mentally kicked himself. He could never fully function before his first cup of tea. _Stupid stupid stup-_

“The hotels are fully booked till the end of the month,” Bond remarked, and Q envied him for sounding so awake, before he realised that Bond was going to stay _several_ weeks. “Christmas, a touristy season and all.”

Q didn’t know what to think of it.

(He refused to hope, however.)

( ~~He hoped, anyway.~~ )

 

26.

Greg was unbelievably nervous.

He’d spent a rare day off cleaning his shithole of a flat and going off to a real wet market to pick fresh groceries (Mycroft was a sensualist with an eye for details, Greg had a mountain up his path, didn’t he). He’d panicked over his collection of movies and for a moment of insanity he’d considered texting Sherlock (or maybe Q, he seemed more helpful than the middle brother, and really keen to have him bunk up with Mycroft come to think of it) when his phone suddenly vibrated.

_He likes political thrillers and World War movies. British films are best – A._

Greg decided to not question how Mycroft’s super PA got to know his plight or his mobile number and continued his preparations.

The doorbell rung at five to (Mycroft was always punctual when he wasn’t pulled away by emergencies) and Greg swore real butterflies were wreaking havoc in his stomach. It made no sense, this was just one of their normal meets up-

_Yeah, right._

Mycroft’s bright smile caused Greg’s heart to speed up before the detective noticed that the rest of the politician was still pale, the bags beneath his eyes standing out like a bruise. Even his brown-red hair looked limp, despite the numerous products Greg could hazard had been applied there.

“You should take more rest,” Greg said, “We can postpone this.”

“Good evening, Gregory,” Mycroft only greeted in amusement as he let himself in. “Hmm, smells good,” he commented at the scent of the food waiting in the kitchen.

“I’m serious, Mycroft,” he followed the taller man into the flat as the latter took off his overcoat.

But Mycroft only threw him a wider smile. “What makes you think I don’t feel relaxed now?”

Greg was rendered speechless. The statement was very telling of the degree of _trust_ Mycroft must have placed in Greg.

It must be a lie, the yarder thought, his sofa was crap – it’s blue for goodness sake – and his flat was a far cry from the luxury in Mycroft’s Pall Mall residence, but when the elder Holmes settled on his hideous furniture there wasn’t a single line of discomfort on his body.

Greg tried not to let the sight overwhelm him.

They spent the next hour munching on the pie Greg had cooked, Mycroft chuckling at ‘slightly inaccurate, but good try’ [5] scenes from _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_. Occasionally, Greg voiced questions and speculations and Mycroft entertained them, the two men inching closer as they conversed.

After a point, a lull washed over them. Pressed to the warm body next to him and his belly full, Greg was satisfied.

“It’s almost ending,” he nearly hummed, his body almost melted to the back of his couch. He turned to his companion, “shall we-”

Greg couldn’t help but break into a smile.

Mycroft had dozed off.

‘Oh, dear,’ he sighed quietly as he carefully rearranged the taller man so that his head was on Greg’s lap. Greg bent over and saw Mycroft’s eyeballs shifting behind the lids, long rustic-coloured lashes shaking over tiny dots of freckles on milky cheeks. Smooth cheeks. _Probably never seen a day under the sun after univ_ , Greg wondered. Proper and understanding of his schedule, of what his job meant to him, Greg remembered telling Jeremy. Huh, the geek was right; Greg didn’t have to look far.Before he was even conscious of it, Greg was carding his fingers through the younger man’s hair.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open at the touch on his face, and for one stolen pocket of eternity, they stared at each other. Nobody was breathing.

“Myc,” Greg spoke, his whisper soft, and as soon as the nickname left his mouth, time moved again. Greg watched the politician’s face change and stuttered, “Is that okay? Too casual? Sorry-”

“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was slightly husky with sleep as he reached out to touch the back of the yarder’s neck. “It’s fine,” he murmured.

Greg shivered when the thumb on his nape caressed his skin, and leant for a kiss.

(He felt at peace.)

 

27.

Christmas with the Holmeses. John still couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to.

“Mind-boggling, isn’t it?” Greg only had one glance of John as the doctor took a seat adjacent to Greg, but one look must be enough for the detective inspector to know what John was thinking about.

“Yes, well, “John smiled wanly at Greg in greeting. “The recent development of your relationship with Mycroft is more mind-boggling to me, if you don’t mind me saying.”

John couldn’t help but relaxed when the yarder responded with a good-natured laugh. Damn if he wasn’t at least a bit grateful that Greg (for some bizarre reasons) were dating Mycroft. Greg could possibly be the only other normal bloke John was going to see in the next four days.

Sherlock huffed as he sidled into the car and sat on the other side of John. “We’re picking up Q as well,” he remarked. It was not a question. The deviation from Mycroft’s usual black sedan meant there would be more passengers sharing the vehicle.

“Yes,” Mycroft returned to his car after his brother was surely tucked inside and sat on the second row of seats that had been flipped back so that they were facing each other. “He’s bringing his plus one as well.” 

Fleetingly, John wondered what Q’s plus one might be like, whether he was a normal bloke Greg and John could commiserate with or not.

Sherlock snorted. “The MI6 agent doesn’t have a car?”

“I forbid them from using it,” Mycroft stated calmly, “wouldn’t want anyone to go missing, after all.”

Dread filled John’s stomach. _God, why didn’t he say no!?_

Fifteen minutes later, the youngest Holmes looked very annoyed when he stepped in, but his expression brightened when the bespectacled, thin lad laid his eyes on the DI. “Gregory,” he sounded glad to see the salt and pepper-haired man.

Greg, in turn, had an easy smile on his face as he greeted the younger man. “Jeremy,” he teased, and Q groaned. The DI was never letting it go.

John stared at them and felt strangely betrayed, for a moment. He still couldn’t look at Q comfortably; his presence reminded John that his flatmate of one year did not tell him that he had a frigging younger brother. John hated thinking about what other secrets Sherlock could be keeping from him.

Greg, however, didn’t seem to have such qualms, and John envied him.

“Captain Watson,” John heard a familiar voice cutting through the cloud of negativity in his mind and turned around in disbelief.

Caught halfway through the doorway with one foot in the car was a figure John never thought he would see again. The sight of those familiar arctic blue eyes and long legs wrapped in tight-fitting trousers brought John back to open-mouthed kisses, teeth clacking and breath gasped in urgency, sweaty skin sliding against skin in the heat of the desert. John screamed at his mind before his dilating pupils (and other biological signs of arousal) gave himself away to Sherlock. “Commander Bond,” his voice was even. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Watson.” Oh God, he’s still got that cocksure expression on his face; the way his lips and his gaze cause desire to pool low in John’s gut, those hadn’t changed at all, yet John had a feeling Bond had aged. A lot, within what should be a relatively short amount of time.

(John’s changed too, so it’s all fine.)

Sherlock scowled as Bond, James settled on John’s other side, their thighs pressing. The contact brought the memories of those strong leg muscles to mind and John forced himself to take deeper breaths.  

Meanwhile, Q blinked profusely. “You know each other.” There was a question in his tone.

James shrugged. “Afghanistan. I was sent to help with recon.” [6]

John saw Mycroft observing James and him in an intense, scrutinising stare before the government official’s eyes widened a fraction. _Shite_ , John thought, _he’s figured us out._

“Ah,” Q blinked twice as rapidly, “I see.” He looked away from Bond as he took off his coat and placed it on his lap. He then proceeded to continue his small talks with Greg, as though he was ignoring Bond.

 _Every bloody Holmes has figured it out_ , John groaned inwardly as the air became heavier. Greg was perhaps the only one without a clue.

Suddenly, John felt a stab of unease. _Will I ever be in that position?_

He tried to ignore it. He shouldn’t feel melancholic now, at such a festive time. “So…you and…Q,” John put on his best smile.

Suddenly, everyone in the car looked at John as though he was obtuse (except Greg, of course, but even he had a ‘you just dug yourself into a hole, lad’ on his face).

Q decided to save him from the social faux pas, bless him. “We’re colleagues at MI6,” he spoke rather brusquely.

“And flatmate,” Bond added as he leaned forward, closer to the youngest man in the vehicle, the distance between his body and John’s wider.

Q’s characteristic Holmes’ knowing eyes watched his companion for half a second before he indicated his acquiescence. “For the time being,” he said begrudgingly.

“So, Mr Bond,” Sherlock crossed his arms, one eye twitching. John watched him warily. Whatever he was going to say next wasn’t going to be nice, he knew it. “Need I give you the talk on what I am capable of, if you ever hurt my dear brother?”

Q made an indignant noise. “Nothing’s happening between us,” he argued.

Everyone acted as though Q hadn’t spoken a word. Even Bond. Q sighed, his demeanor resigned.

 “The Director’s approved me,” the double-oh agent straightened himself to appear more confident.

Q turned to his eldest brother sharply. “You did?” He looked genuinely surprised.

The politician only leaned back and adjusted his brolly. “I did,” he admitted. “Mr Bond, I am assured that Q can take care of himself. He will not, shall we say, share the fate of your previous lovers. We know who the dangerous one is in this relationship. Still,” Mycroft’s smile was slick and dangerous, “the approval is conditional, I’m afraid.”

“Well said,” John was amazed that for once, Sherlock agreed with Mycroft. The consulting detective gave a nod as he too leaned back.

Bond didn’t react visibly. Q just blinked rapidly again. He looked torn between gratitude for the backhanded compliment, anger for the meddling, or downright horrified for such talks occurring in his presence.

The rest of the car ride went on in a strange silence.

(But that’s okay, somehow John had gotten used to it.)

 

28.

That winter solstice, there were seven of them in the house. Mummy was very pleased.

A repertoire could only be held after three years. But that’s another problem for later.

End [7]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. From Towers by couldbeaspaceraider. Super awesome fic (it’s in all rec list I’ve seen so far), check it out!
> 
> 2\. I’m insecure because this fic is different from other Bondlock fics I’ve seen, which depict Sherlock and Mycroft (mostly Sherlock) as protective, overbearing brothers and Q grumbles at their interventions. I’m idealistic and a hopeless romantic, (and the eldest sibling in my family, don’t really know what me sibs think of me, I hope they don’t hate me so much) so I’d like the three brothers to love each other, exist harmoniously and respect each other’s choices.
> 
> 3\. Also known as the weirdest brother-interrogates-boyfriend dialogue ever.
> 
> 4\. Invitation Irene Adler’s style. Lol.
> 
> 5\. My personal headcanon was that Mycroft was, briefly, an MI6 operative during the height of the Cold War (in 1989) and was directly involved in East Berlin.
> 
> 6\. Desert Heat by roane (http://archiveofourown.org/works/579973) is the premise of their first meeting in Afghanistan.
> 
> 7\. Yes, it’s not a satisfying end. A lot of things still left hanging. John hasn’t got together with Sherlock yet (and tbh I would rather they get together after Sherlock returns from the grave. Too cruel otherwise). James and Q are still only f-buddies. I may want to revisit this in the future but for the time being this is my capacity (also, Reichenbach makes situations rather complicated).


End file.
